First Impressions
by AQotL
Summary: Sometimes the when, the where, the how doesn't matter. The important part is it happened. A collection of oneshot AUs rewriting Chuck and Sarah's first meeting.


**A/N: **It's been a little while since I've posted something that's purely _Chuck _fic, but the finale and a bit of free time have led me to return to work on some old, unfinished stories (as well as start a rewatch of every season). So, I decided to dust off a few of these ideas for publication.

Following the end of Season 4, I started to work on a collection of oneshot Chuck/Sarah AUs. I had so many different ideas as to how they could have met that I started a bunch of separate stories without actually finishing one. Then time and inspiration left me, and all of the files sat untouched in my document folder.

Then the SERIES FINALE came around, and I returned to these short stories to honor such an awesome show. I originally planned to just work on the started stories, but after finding a complete oneshot I decided to go ahead and start off the collection.

So, in tribute to the end of a wonderful series, I proudly present to you AU No.1.

**Disclaimer:** Despite the fact that these are AU stories, the characters and certain ideas/details do not belong to me. They will forever be a part of _Chuck _canon, and I am borrowing them just for fun.

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><p>It's June 26th, 1998 when I first meet Chuck.<p>

I'm living out of a hotel room in Burbank and I'm fatherless, friendless, frustrated, and working at a Wienerlicious. Just wait until I get to the details.

The day after graduation, I packed up my things (like there was much there in the first place), tossed everything in the back of my oh-so-cool convertible, and said _sayonara _to James Buchanan High (goodbye, Cougars), San Diego, and my old life. No more Jenny Burton.

I drove most of the day, refusing to look back at everything I passed. It was all in the past; best to leave it that way. It wasn't until I reached Burbank that I took a look around and decided, _This is a good enough place as any._

With a hotel room as my temporary address, I took to the strip malls to find a job. The parking lots were full of sunglasses-wearing, gum-snapping, convertible-driving teenagers, already working on their tans and on the same mission as me. After a few failed interviews (I wouldn't have looked good in a Large Mart vest anyway), I wound up as an employee at a fast food restaurant frequented by guys just as greasy as the food. Not to mention the ridiculous outfit I have to wear.

So now I'm manning a cash register that never seems quite full enough, catering to pimple-faced middle-schoolers and sleazy electronics salesmen, and staring at the hot dog rotisserie as if my mind power will make them cook faster. I don't get paid enough for this, especially if I have to wear this goofy German barmaid uniform.

The bell above the door rings, and I reluctantly lift my pigtailed head up to glance at the customers. Recognizing the stench faster than the men, I duck my head down again, but not fast enough.

"Yo, Blondie," the Indian man with the horrid haircut greets me. "We'll take the usual." He slides a twenty underneath my hand, the bill moister than it should be. I rapidly remove my hand from the table and contemplate taking the hot dog tongs to pick up the cash. No way am I touching that.

His friend, looking just as wasted and greasy as ever, echoes mindlessly, "Yeah, the usual. Unless there's a daily special." His eyes stare in the general direction of my more appealing parts, and I silently try to decide whether I should deck him or impale him on a rotisserie stick.

Okay, I have anger management issues. Sue me.

The buffoon duo, Biff and Jester or whatever the hell their names are, linger at the counter and follow me with their eyes as I move about to put together their order. I grab the tongs and forcefully yank two hot dogs out of the rotisserie, throw them inside a pair of buns, toss everything in a paper bag, and hastily deal with the money. Way too engrossed by my movements, the drunken Buy Morons are finally jolted out of their stupor when I lob the bag, receipt, and $13.32 in change at them as if to say, "Scram!" With one more dazed but pleased look, the tall, sluggish one trails after his thin friend. I lather myself with hand sanitizer once they leave the vicinity.

The day drags on after Duff and Buster (no, that's not right) stop in, and I'm about ready to scream in vexation when my shift ends at 4 PM. Since I have nowhere to be on a Friday, I quickly change into a tank top and jeans in the Wienerlicious's restroom before heading out.

I pull out of the parking lot and onto the road, my mind wandering aimlessly. What can I do on a Friday? I have no friends, no family, no plans to speak of. I run through this internal monologue as I pass the beach, which suddenly seems very appealing. Before I know it, the convertible slides its way between two faded yellow parking lines and I hit the sandy shores.

Walking barefoot on the grainy earth, I head down to the edge of the water and take a seat. The sound of waves crashing calms me, so I close my eyes and cast my cares out to sea. I remain in this state of meditation until footsteps come to a halt behind me.

"Looks like I'm not the only one who comes here after a rough day," a tired but cheerful voice says. "I don't mind sharing my spot." At that, a lanky teenage boy with curly brown hair flops down beside me and gives me a shy smile.

I grin back, arching an eyebrow at him. "_Your_ spot? What, does it have your name on it or something?"

"Sure it does," he chuckles, and I swear it's the most genuine laugh I've heard in a long time. Armed with a thin twig, my companion sketches in the sand in front of my feet, 'Property of C. I. B.'

" 'C. I. B?' " I ask, reading the initials.

The boy sticks out his hand. "Charles Irving Bartowski, professional nerd. Please, call me Chuck."

I take his hand. "I'm Sarah," I say slowly, still trying to get used to the feel of the foreign name on my tongue. I add, "Sarah Walker," more for my sake than his.

"Well then, Sarah Walker," Charles "Call Me Chuck" Bartowski starts, a goofy grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. "What brings you here this afternoon?"

I let out a weak laugh and bury my chilly feet beneath layers of coarse sand. "The need to escape from reality." I look up briefly, unsure whether or not I should share any more details, but Chuck's sincere interest makes my choice much easier. "My, ah, my dad was arrested recently. Since I had no friends or other family members, I moved here to Burbank a few weeks ago as a means to start over. I've got a job serving hot dogs to customers while wearing an outfit as skimpy as my salary." I shudder for effect, but add, "Life… it— it's been going okay, I guess. Could be better, but I can make do with this."

After pouring out my soul to a complete stranger (which I never, emphasis on _never_, do), I expect unasked for pity or sympathy, or maybe even uncomfortable silence, from Chuck. I definitely don't expect his actual comment: "Wait, _you're _Vicki Vale?"

I turn to him, utterly confused. "Excuse me?"

Chuck turns a most astounding shade of red and rapidly waves his hands, evidently flustered. "Oh, sorry, sorry, I didn't mean to say that out loud. It's just— I recognize you from the Wienerlicious."

I regard him one more time, finally noticing the familiar green polo he's wearing. "Buy More?" I sigh, eyebrow arched warily.

Chuck looks down at his shirt as well and shrugs his shoulders. "Guilty as charged. I guess that wasn't a very good first impression—Jeff and Lester soil the name of the loyal knights of Buy Moria."

_Knights of Buy Moria? _The comment almost makes me laugh out loud, but I smother a giggle instead. "Aren't you a little young to be a Green Shirt?" I ask, observing Chuck again. He looks about my age, maybe younger.

"That… that was almost a _Star Wars _quote," he stammers in response, his face lighting up in nerdy glory like one of those laser-sword thingies from the aforementioned movie (it's _Star Wars _that has those, right?). The grin of joy falters when I give him a quizzical look, and he quickly coughs, "… That wasn't your intention. Right. I sometimes forget that others haven't seen the entire trilogy as many times as I have."

I would mention to Chuck that I actually have _never _seen a _Star Wars_ movie or anything sci-fi, but I worry that the confession would cause his nerd brain to short-circuit in shock. Instead, I say, "No, really—what's _your _story? The Buy More isn't exactly an ideal place for a summer job."

"My story?" Chuck repeats, casually folding his arms behind his head and leaning back onto the sandy earth. "My story falls under the same set of Dewey Decimals as yours does. Mom left when I was nine, Dad was here for a little while longer, but was never really _here_. Ellie, my older sister, practically raised me. She's up at college now, though—UCLA, studying to be a doctor. So now it's just me—unless you count Morgan. Yeah, yeah, correction, it's just me and Morgan. He'd be upset if he ever learned I'd momentarily forgotten about him—he's been my best friend for years." Chuck finally pauses to take a breath, and glances up at me apologetically. "Sorry, I'm rambling, aren't I? You know, I do this a lot, especially when I'm nervous..."

"Nervous?" I furrow my brow. "Why are you nervous?"

For someone who can speed-talk like crazy, Chuck is positively speechless once I ask that. I'm not sure if it's because of the setting sun, but there's suddenly a light pink tinge to his cheeks, and he carefully runs a hand through his hair. "Well, you see, I've never had a great track record with girls, especially pretty ones—they're either unaware of my existence or know me as 'that tall kid who always has to save Organ,' depending on the situation. But here I am, actually having a conversation with one of the nicest, most beautiful girls I've ever seen—although, your lack of _Star Wars _knowledge may cost you a few points there…"

He grins jokingly at that last part, but I know he's been completely serious about everything that came before. My face starts to flush as well, accompanied by a wide smile that showcases my braces like a priceless painting. Reflexively, my hand flies up to hide them away, but Chuck's voice stops me.

"Don't. I like seeing your smile. It— this may sound kind of cheesy, but I don't feel as terrified."

I could have said many things in response, ranging from "It's not cheesy," to a simple, "Oh." But it's the shy, bright grin that sneaks across Chuck's face that leads me to lie back on the sand and whisper, "Same here."

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><p><strong>AN 2: **And there you have it. My first take on Chuck and Sarah's first meeting in an AU setting.

I have a few more stories in progress and a couple unwritten ideas, so I'll keep working on them when I have time. As such, I cannot say which option will appear next chapter—it all depends on the story I finish first.

Let me know what you think.

Until next time,

AQotL


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